


Habanera

by saraid



Series: Carmen in Green [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Creepy, Gross, M/M, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 02:16:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2490803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saraid/pseuds/saraid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam will never give up his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Habanera

**Author's Note:**

> this is all glasslogic's fault. she tempted me. i'm so glad she did. she also did the art. beta'd by doug_the_peep, aka my loving husband, who had to add a line. ftr, Habanera does not refer to the hot pepper, but a song from Carmen, which i listened to while writing this. Act One, No.5. I like the lyrics. (scroll down for English translation) written for http://undeadbigbang.livejournal.com/
> 
> *************************************************

It took a lot of maintenance. More time and effort than Sam had ever put into anything other than law school. Even Dean complained sometimes, and he didn't always talk as much these days. It really sort of depended on the condition of his tongue.

Which brings back up the subject of maintenance.

Dean grunted. It wasn't a sound of pain - they'd found that he really didn't feel pain anymore. Oddly, and thankfully, the nerves that registered pleasure as well as taste, hot and cold, dry and wet, still worked.

Magic was fickle and strange. So was his brother.

Dean grunted again and tried to speak, which pulled his mangled tongue from Sam's grasp. Sam swore as a small chunk fell off, bouncing from the bed onto the floor.

“Be still!" Sam scolded, bending over to pick it back up, laying it on the bed to do next. "This wouldn't have happened if you had just let me help you get it back out. I have the forceps - you didn't have to bite yourself!"

Dean rolled his eyes, or tried to. The right one was loose again. Sam sighed and paused in his stitching, trying to remember if he had any more JB Weld, which worked best on body parts that still needed a bit of movement. "Just be still," he finally told Dean again, a touch of exasperation in his tone. "You don't have to explain, I know it was an accident, that your tongue got stuck at the back of your throat. But I could've used the forceps to get it out, you didn't have to try with your fingers."

Apparently chastened, Dean settled lower, slumping forward a bit so Sam could get a better view. They’d had to buy a super-bright ultra magnifying lamp for times like these. Usually Dean didn’t do much damage to himself – he was careless sometimes, especially when hunting, but not usually during sex.

They’d spent the day researching for the hunt they’d found, and come back to the room early, planning to rest up and hit the cemetery around midnight. Just a salt & burn, but a particularly nasty spirit that was preying on anyone that walked down a certain hall in one of the dormitories at the nearby state university. A plain hall, where this drunken asshole, Tucker Perry, had choked to death on his own vomit after passing out. In the middle of a massive floor party – Sam’d had to explain that one to Dean – no-one had noticed the big bully on the floor as he gasped and gurgled, until it was too late. Several people had tried to revive him, but that didn’t matter to the spirit.

The dorm itself had been closed after the incident and remodeled but now, now, three years later, it was open again and Tucker had been waiting. Three years to grow angrier and crazier and now three young people that tarried in that spot had choked to death with no apparent cause.

Tucker had to go.

So tonight they were gonna eat – Sam – watch some TV and nap – both of them, Dean liked to sleep just as much as he ever had and his new …situation …had the surprising benefit of no more nightmares – and then head out. Sure, his memory was sometimes spotty, but it seemed a fair trade to both of them. Dean didn’t tire the way he used to, his changed body not slowed by fatigue or physical exertion, which was even better for Sam since Dean didn’t mind doing most of the digging, leaving Sam on lookout, since he was the only one really in danger anyhow.

Unfortunately, they’d gotten distracted. In the dim light of the TV Dean’s skin seemed as pale and pretty as it had once been, and he smelled of the herbs and oils they used in the nightly ritual that maintained him. It was always a quiet, relaxed time between them, intensely private. They’d planned to do it when they got back from the cemetery so they could go with the flow afterwards, but Dean’s skin had been glowing and his body was warmed by Sam’s as they lay on the bed, Sam in the vee of Dean’s legs, leaning back against his chest.

And now Sam was taking exquisitely careful tiny stitches to piece Dean’s tongue back together after he’d let it slip to the back to his throat during the excellent blowjob he'd given Sam - no gag reflex, no need to breath - and then accidentally bitten it several times getting it back in place. The stitches would be absorbed and everything come back together when they did the ritual, but if they waited another night for the salt & burn another student might die. So they were making do with temporary repairs they’d learned in the early days, before Sam had found the ritual.

At that point Dean had been little more than a shambling, rotting carcass toddling around Bobby’s panic room, shedding bits of muscle and skin and bone, making unearthly groaning noises and trying to bite anything and anyone that came too close.

Acting like a typical zombie, of course. Sam shuddered, remembering. He was no longer a fan of George Romero.

“Okay,” he said, tying off the last stitch. “Let me fix your eye and then we can go. I don’t want it falling out at the cemetery. It would be hell trying to find it again.”

“Mother hen,” Dean snarked, but he lay down with his head under the light. There was a slick popping sound as Sam plucked the eyeball using a melon baller and set it aside on a piece of waxed paper. It worked because things didn’t stick to it and it wasn’t like they needed to keep things sterile. Dean didn’t get infections. There had been a time when that sound, or any of a hundred others he’d grown used to, would’ve made Sam gag, but now it was just a part of Dean. No more disgusting than the way he used to chew with his mouth open when he was being particularly obnoxious, or tried to fart the national anthem.

A nice puddle of JB Weld and Sam carefully replaced the eye with his fingers, using just the tips to maneuver it correctly into place. “How’s that?” he asked after a few seconds had passed.

Dean closed his eyelids and Sam could see his eyes rolling beneath them. He opened them again, frowning. “A little sticky. I think you used too much.”

“Deal with it, zombie-boy,” Sam replied heartlessly. “It’ll hold until the ritual.”

Dean stuck out his newly repaired tongue, criss-crossed with tiny rows of black stitches that looked like teeny fruit flies.

“Oh, no.” Sam got off the bed. “We are so behind schedule. Get your fat ass up and let’s go.”

“Hey! I’m not fat!” Dean protested as he did so, reaching for his jeans. Sam was pulling on socks first. “I'm exactly the same as I was when I died. Are you saying I was fat then?”

“You’ve actually lost a few pounds,” Sam observed as they finished dressing. “Since you can’t keep anything in your stomach and your intestinal tract is clean.”

“So not fat.”

“No, Dean,” Sam smiled as he caught his brother around the back of the neck and dropped a quick kiss on his cool lips. “You’re not fat.”

“Just dead,” Dean grinned, giving Sam’s ass a good grope. Sam squawked and pulled away, making a face.

“After the ritual, horndog.”

“I’m a monogamous zombie now, don’t be sayin’ shit like that.”

They bickered as they went to the car, their old give-and-take comfortable and welcome. Dean took the wheel – he didn’t fall asleep unless he wanted to, so Sam hardly ever drove anymore. They had just pulled out of the parking lot when Sam’s phone rang. He picked it up and looked at it.

“Dammit.”

“Is it that time again?” Dean asked mockingly. “Who is it this time?”

“Guess so,” Sam growled and answered the call, putting it on speaker and holding it where Dean could hear it too. “Bobby! Hey. I thought it was Ellen’s turn to call.”

“God dammit Boy, this isn’t a joke!” Bobby’s tirades hadn’t lessened in vigor over the past two years. If anything they’d grown stronger. “Wait – have you got me on speaker?!”

Since Sam always put him, and anyone else who called, on speaker, it was kinda stupid of him to ask.

“Yeeaah…” Sam drawled. “Wanna say hi to Dean?”

“That thing with you ain’t your brother, Sam. You’ve got to get over this craziness and let us help you.”

“Now that hurts, Bobby,” Dean piped up. “I thought I was your favorite.”

“I loved Dean Winchester like one’a my own,” Bobby snarled, and they could both hear the hurt in his voice. “Whatever you are, you ain’t him. Sam, you’ve got to see that.”

“We’re headed off to a salt & burn right now,” Sam took over the conversation. “Be finished in the morning. Got anything else lined up for us?”

Dean blew a raspberry.

“He ain’t gonna give a job to one of the evil undead and my unwitting, brainwashed partner.”

“Unwitting?” Sam said. “That’s a big word for a zombie.”

“Hell, it was a big word for me when I was alive.”

Bobby was silent as they exchanged quips and grins. After a couple of minutes Sam addressed him.

“Bobby? You got anything new?”

“You’re risking your immortal soul, boy,” Bobby said, anger roughening his voice.

“It’s mine to risk.”

“His soul’s fine!” Dean raised his voice. He hated it when everyone gave Sam a hard time about saving him. Keeping him.

“You’ve got demon blood in you and a zombie brother with you,” Bobby said. “I don’t think there’s anything that can save you if you keep on this way.”

“Then I’d better gather as much good karma as I can, right, Bobby? You got a job for us?”

“There might be a Siren in Texas,” Bobby growled. “I’ll email you the details.”

“Great. Thanks, Bobby.”

“Yeah! Thanks Bobby!” Dean yelled, and Sam ended the call. He looked over at Dean, who was staring ferociously at the road, as if it might rise up and attack them and he had to be prepared. Sam sighed. He knew how much Dean had depended on Bobby, had loved the man – still did. If anyone tried to tell him that Dean – his Dean, the way he was now – didn’t have feelings, he’d just beat them over the head. Dean now was more open emotionally, willing to talk about things and cuddle and he did things just to make Sam happy. It was as if dying and becoming the undead had loosened something – well, something metaphysical, aside from the actual parts it had loosened – in Dean’s soul and he didn’t need all the macho defense mechanisms he’d clung to before. He could just be Dean.

“I’m sorry,” he offered his glowering brother as Dean kept his eyes on the road.

“Not your fault,” Dean grunted. Sam saw that his left eye was sticking a little bit. It made him look slightly cross-eyed.

“But I can be sad that it hurts you,” Sam pressed.

“Yeah.” Dean breathed a long sigh. He only used air for talking and show nowadays. “You can. Thanks, Sammy.”

“Always,” Sam promised, leaning over to give Dean’s neck a quick nuzzle. His skin was getting cooler as the night got darker, but they’d take care of that later.

***

The cemetery was big and modern, with well-kept grass and tidy gravel paths and those silly headstones laid flat into the ground. Dean hated those, Sam too. They seemed so impersonal.

“I hate these damn things,” Dean grumbled predictably.

“Old cemeteries are really prettier,” Sam said.

“Girl.”

“Then why do you like them?” Sam continued the well-worn conversation as they walked quietly down the rows. They’d come yesterday to locate the grave and knew where they were going. Dean’s night vision was incredible now; Sam just had to follow in his footsteps.

“Because they make a big deal out of it,” Dean replied. “It should be a big deal, dying, being dead. It’s worth more than a tiny chunk of perfectly polished granite. Life doesn’t have perfect edges, neither should death.”

Not for the first time Sam wondered how much longer they could keep this up. They had arrangements made – if, or when, Sam died – hopefully on a hunt, hopefully decades from now – they had the spell components in a box in the Impala’s trunk. Dean would have 36 hours, max, to get the car somewhere safe and then finish the job the zombie had started two years ago. Truly kill himself before he could become a danger to others. Because of all the magic they had poured into him they weren’t sure simply salting and burning himself would be enough – there was a reverse ritual that he’d have to perform. It would undo all of the repair work they’d done over the years. Dean would have to set himself afire pretty much the second he finished the ritual, but Sam trusted his timing. And he knew his brother wouldn’t want to stay here, like this, without him, and no one else was going to do what he needed to stay functioning. As a thinking, reasoning being and not a slavering monster shambling around groaning “Brains…”

He didn’t worry about it much. Whatever was gonna happen, it would happen without his input. All they could do was try to survive, and Dean took Sam’s survival very personally.

Tucker’s grave was in one of the back rows, the cemetery running oldest to newest. There weren’t a lot of trees, just a few grown ones left when they cleared the land, and Tucker was out in the open, near the middle of a row, three empty spaces on his left. Were those for his parents? Sam wondered. Maybe a grandparent. He’d only been 19 when he died, which didn’t give him a pass on killing people, but it was sad. Sam thought his parents probably hadn’t planned to bury their son before they passed. If they’d ever thought of it they’d probably expected Tucker to be buried with his wife, many years from now. Not here, someday with them.

They stood shoulder to shoulder and looked at the headstone for a few minutes. Sam wasn’t sure what Dean was thinking.

“Too bad he had to turn into an asshole."

“Yeah.” It was still sad, but so many of the things they dealt with were. “Too bad,” Sam echoed.

“Let’s get to it.” Dean unshouldered his bag and shovel, taking off his jacket and laying it over the next nearest marker to keep the dirt off it. He didn’t get to wear it much anymore, hoodies were better for disguising the color of his skin and eyes, so he took every opportunity he could. He laid out his lighter fluid and salt beside the bag.

Sam pulled out the gallon jug of salt and laid a thick circle around the grave, then took up his place inside it, sawed-off resting on his hip as he kept a lookout.

Dean was faster now. Stronger. Sam had never heard of a fast zombie so he chalked that up to the ritual, but zombies were unnaturally strong and that made this much easier. Dean could dig up a grave in half the time it used to take them, and he put his back into it. Sam knew he just didn’t want Sam exposed any longer than he had to be. Dean had always been the physical leader on hunts; he’d always had more stamina, better instincts and better aim than Sam. That hadn't changed.

He removed the topsoil in neat squares, laying them to the side in order so they could be easily, neatly reassembled. As soon as he dug the shovel into the dirt below a wind began blowing.

“Here we go,” he grunted. “Keep sharp, Sammy.”

“I got it.” Sam raised the shotgun, scanning the area.

The wind picked up, blowing hard, and Sam silently cursed to see the salt begin moving. They had to find a better way to do that, someday. A way to keep the salt in place that was easy to clean up and take with them. Maybe a rope with salt glued thickly onto it?

“Sam! Pay attention!” Dean shouted. Sam gave his head a quick shake and got back into the game.

The howling wind almost seemed to contain a voice – a young man’s voice, angry and shrieking, but not quite audible. Sam glanced and Dean was two feet down already.

Then, suddenly, the way it always happened, Tucker was there, right in front of Sam. He was wearing a vomit-stained sweatshirt and jeans, his sneakers untied, flickering in that weird way ghosts did.

His once-handsome face was twisted in rage. He reached for Sam with both burly arms and Sam pulled the trigger.

“Shit, he’s pissed,” Sam shouted.

“He showed up pretty fucking fast,” Dean agreed. His shovel was flying, the mound of dirt growing at an amazing rate. “Almost there.”

Sam blasted Tucker again when he appeared off to the left. At least the spirit didn’t seem to be especially good at pulling himself back together, giving Sam time to reload.

Dean was slamming the shovel into the thick wood casket. It had probably been shiny and pretty when Tucker’s parents chose it, when he was lowered into the ground.

“I’m in!” Dean shouted. Without thinking Sam turned his head to glance into the grave, but Tucker was there again, backhanding him. With no trees or headstones to stop him, Sam flew back ten feet or more and landed heavily with a curse.

“Fuck! Dean!”

Dean turned in time to throw a handful of salt into Tucker’s face and then he was hauling himself out of the grave and on his knees beside it, pouring in the salt and lighter fluid. He pulled out a cheap plastic lighter and Sam yelled.

“Dean, no! You’re too close!”

Fire was the only thing that could take his brother from him. Sam tried to get up, tried to scream, but the wind was knocked out of him and Tucker was there again, right behind Dean, looking like he was going to shove Dean into the open pit, but Dean’s reflexes saved him again. He threw the lighter in and dove across the hole, landing on his shoulder on the other side, rolling frantically to escape the leaping flames.

On the other side of the grave Tucker Perry screamed his rage and vanished in a pillar of fire. It was all very biblical, Sam thought dazedly, letting his head fall back to the ground. The grass was cool. It felt nice.

Dean rolled to his feet, checked the fire, and then came to squat beside Sam. His hands were gentle on Sam’s face, turning his head so Dean could see his eyes.

“You ‘k?” he asked, sounding nervous. His tendency to blame himself for everything hadn’t changed when he’d died.

“Just – gotta catch my breath,” Sam panted slowly.

“Did you hit your head?” Dean’s fingers smoothed through his hair, looking for scrapes or lumps. Sam gave a careful shake and it didn’t make anything worse.

“Nah. Just landed hard.”

“Sorry I wasn’t faster.” Now those hands cradled his face, thumbs stroking Sam’s cheekbones tenderly. Sam swallowed. He loved this version of Dean, and was truly convinced this was really his brother without all the burdens he’d borne in life, but sometimes the gentleness was almost too much. The love he saw in Dean’s pale, milky-green eyes, it was so strong.

“No-one’s faster than you,” Sam said, and pulled Dean down into a kiss. It was a little rank, since they were past due for the ritual by a few hours, but no worse than morning breath and Sam wasn’t going to let a little stink keep him from kissing Dean. Dean hesitated, but kissed him back chastely, mouth closed, eyes watching Sam’s face. When they broke apart Sam kissed Dean’s jaw, his chin. “I’m fine.”

“It’s all quiet.” Dean looked around, one hand still running through Sam’s hair, he resisted the urge to press into it. They were on a job. “Why don’t you stay here while I finish up. I don’t think we’ll have anymore problems.”

It seemed reasonable. Dean had spent his life taking care of Sam as much as Sam would let him and nowadays Sam was willing to let him do it more. It made their relationship more balanced, with the maintenance and the ritual and everything. Propped on his elbows, Sam watched Dean gather Sam’s gun and bag and Dean’s jacket. He brought them all over, putting the gun in Sam’s hands. When Sam sat up he draped his jacket over Sam’s shoulders and kissed the top of his head.

“I won’t be long. We can do our thing after you get some food, I'm not in any danger."

Sam wanted to object, but Dean was right. They had a 48 hour window to repeat the ritual and they were only at 31 now. It would go more smoothly if he was recovered. They hadn’t expected this to be a hard burn, but he had gotten banged up a bit, and Dean hadn’t been hurt –

“Dean?” Sam spoke up. “Are you hurt? I should have asked sooner.”

“Um.” Dean looked away. Embarrassed, Sam knew. Dean hated to be trouble. He didn’t want to be a burden.

“Deeean.”

“Okay!” with a grunt Dean leaned down so Sam could see his right shoulder. The sleeve of his grey tee shirt had been ripped, probably when he rolled, and a ragged three inch chunk of skin had gone with it. There was no blood and Sam could see the grayish red of zombie muscle fiber clearly. “I didn’t notice it until a minute ago,” he said unconvincingly.

“Well, we’ve got plenty of moleskin. I’ll put some on when we get back to the motel.”

“No, you’ll take a shower and clean up.”

Dean didn’t mention showering. Sam frowned. Sometimes Dean got nervous about showers and water, afraid he’d lose pieces, but usually only when things were already loose.

“Is that all that’s wrong?”

Dean spread his hands. “Yeah, Sammy. I promise.”

“Then why no shower for you?”

“Because it won’t really help, you know that.” Dean looked away.

“It’ll get the dirt off.” Sam argued. He reached for Dean’s arm. The muscle was tense under his hand, rock-hard. “Dean. C’mon, tell me what’s bugging you.”

“I’ve got to get that grave filled in so we can get out of here.” Dean gave Sam’s hand a squeeze and pulled away. Sam didn’t try to stop him. “Get you something to eat.”

It was a distraction but Sam went with it. He knew Dean still felt as if this, the zombie thing, made him wrong, the way Bobby and Ellen said it did. He wasn't willing to give it up and die, but the fact was that he was dead, and sometimes it bothered him more than others.

“I’m not hungry.”

"Hey, you've got to eat. You won't want to after the ritual and you'll put it off until morning," Dean told him, getting up and going back over to the grave. The flames were smoldering out and he began filling it back in again. By the time he'd neatly laid the squares of topsoil back Sam was feeling recovered. He accepted Dean's hand to pull him back up. Walking back to the car they bumped shoulders companionably.

***

Dean looked around as they drove through the darkened town. Not that big, it closed up shop pretty early. "There's that diner close to the library. I bet it's 24 hours."

Sam snorted and his hand, on Dean's knee, gave a squeeze.

"Diner, huh. I'm not sure it's my stomach you're worried about."

Dean shrugged, silently agreeing. "It's more my tongue than my stomach but, yeah, I'd like to eat something. It's been a couple months."

Sam grimaced but nodded. Dean took the corner, driving at a leisurely pace. No sense getting noticed.

"Usual rules?" Sam asked as they pulled into the parking lot. The diner was indeed brightly lit, with a green neon sign flashing 'Open' at the top of the big glass window.

"I'll dump it and you stitch it."

"Deal." Sam grinned at him, then caught him by the arm as they were walking to the door. Dean waited patiently for him to finish his scrutiny.

With one of Sam's giant hoodies on, face half-covered and in shadow, sleeves pulled down over his hands, Dean's most notable features were hidden well enough. Sam handed over the sunglasses he'd grabbed from the Impala and Dean made a face but put them on.

"Talentless douchebags, Sam," he grumbled.

"And guys with sort-of green skin and weird eyes."

"Yeah yeah yeah." Dean stood another minute, arms out, and let Sam finish his look-over. "Decent?" he asked, lowering his arms and hiding his hands again.

"Well, you're still pretty." Sam smirked. "But I think you'll pass."

"Get a move on, then." Dean gave him a shove. "I want pie. Apple *and* cherry. With ice cream."

Sam followed, smiling, thinking that even death couldn't change some things.

***

Despite their general grubbiness, they lingered over the meal. Sam watched with amused fondness as Dean put away a double bacon cheeseburger, onion rings, a chocolate milkshake, numerous cups of coffee and *three* slices of pie: apple, cherry and coconut, the house specialty. Sam himself was satisfied with a halfway decent salad and a surprisingly good grilled chicken sandwich - and stealing onion rings.

When Dean finally sat back with a replete sigh, Sam shook his head.

"What?" Dean asked.

"I just don't know where you put it all."

"I like feeling full." Dean looked out the window, the night dark with cloud cover. There was a faint blush on his cheeks that made him look more purple than green. He was embarrassed. It was cute, not that Sam would ever say that aloud.

They talked a little about the case Bobby had sent them. There was always the danger that it was a trap. A year ago Bobby and Ellen had set up an 'intervention' for Sam and lured the two of them in with a werewolf hunt. Only the 'werewolf' had been a witch that had agreed to 'set Dean's soul free'. They'd barely escaped, thanks to Dean's super human strength and Sam's quick thinking.

They'd gone underground for ten months, until they needed Bobby's help and couldn't find a way around it. They also demanded an apology and a promise that he'd never try anything like that again, which was grudgingly given. They didn't think Bobby would flat out lie to them but there was always that chance.

"Still sort-of makes me nervous," Dean admitted.

"Me too." Sam covered Dean's hand on the table and his brother didn't object. Sam still marveled at how much calmer Dean was, how so many of his insecurities had left him with his death. Before Dean would have tolerated hand-holding for maybe two seconds or yanked his away immediately and then flirted furiously with the waitress, but now he just gave Sam's hand a squeeze.

"I like this," Sam said softly.

"What? Acting like a big girl?"

Trying to explain once again, Sam pondered his words.

"You being openly affectionate." He swallowed and finished his cooled coffee. "I loved you before, with all your rough edges, but I love being able to show you how I feel and touch you when I want to. You're softer now."

"That's because I'm rotting." Dean smirked.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Don't spoil the moment."

Dean turned his hand over and twined their fingers together. He looked at the table, then back up at his brother. It was hard to tell through the sunglasses but Sam felt Dean's eyes on his.

"I love you," Dean gave a tiny shrug. "Thank you for sticking with me despite - everything."

"I could never let you go."

They sat for another ten minutes, then Sam stood.

"If we want to keep your fine figure we'd better get back to the room."

"Yeah," Dean said quietly, getting up. He left cash on the table, enough to cover the meal and a nice tip. Nowadays his appearance, seen under the low lights of a bar through an inebriated gaze, was enough to rattle his opponents and he almost always won. The fact that they were usually too freaked to start something when they lost was just a bonus.

It was a good thing. Some of the spell components were expensive and hard to find. More than once Sam'd had to chain him up and gag him when his mind began slipping and the ingredients took too long to get. But they were good for now and Dean was looking forward to it. The fog was just starting to encroach, making his thought sluggish, though his love for Sam shone bright and true. It was always a relief to drive that fog back.

Back in the car, hands comfortable on the wheel, he glanced at Sam.

"Shower or ritual first?"

"We're kind-of pushing the limits here. I can see it in your eyes. Ritual," Sam answered firmly.

"Okay, but shower after? Together?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "And you've still got to dump your dinner first."

Dean sighed. He'd like to keep that happy full feeling longer, but the ritual didn't affect many of his organs. It just brought them to a fresh non-rotting state, it couldn't make his stomach digest anything. The food would start to decompose and smell pretty quickly.

"Yeah, okay," he said with ill grace.

"Just be thankful you can still enjoy eating," Sam scolded mildly and Dean knew he was right.

***

The hotel was faux adobe, once painted sky blue but with patches of unmaintained grey spotting it. The pool was empty, they drove past it getting to the farthest first floor room before parking. Getting out, Dean gestured vaguely to the shrub-clogged area behind it.

"I'll just, uh -"

Sam nodded. "I'll get the med kit and get the room ready."

"Okay," Dean nodded. He didn't like it when Sam sewed up the tough layers of organ, muscle and skin, but no matter how hard he tried Dean couldn't place the cut where he could empty out and sew it himself.

Concealed by a thick stand of shrubs, Dean took his wickedly curved knife and sliced through just about where a doctor would perform a low C-section. Though his stitched - or glued - wounds always healed during the ritual, there was always the fear that someday they wouldn't. So he varied the placement of incisions, in case repeated stitching somehow made one area more fragile than another. There was no way to predict how long they could go on like this. Of course Dean didn't age and maybe someday Sammy might want to quit hunting or even find a girl, start a family.

If, when, something happened that took Sam from him, at least Dean knew death would be easy to accomplish. A little ritual, a little salt, a little lighter fluid - he wouldn't even feel it.

Forcing his thoughts to focus on the immediate future, he reached inside himself, past the muscle. Using both hands he squeezed the chewed food out of his stomach, taking the time to get as much as he could. There might be a little left behind, but he figured it just added to the ambience.

There was no pain or blood, a fact that still freaked him out, but he was honestly relieved. Despite his old bravado he wasn't really a fan of either.

With the hoodie covering the gaping wound and one hand spread to keep his insides from becoming outsides, he made his way back to their room.

"Sammy?"

"In here," Sam called from the bathroom, appearing in the doorway. He carried a curved needle and a spool of dental floss. "Come on, I can hardly wait to touch you."

"Right on," Dean said, stripping the hoodie and his shirts as he followed Sam into the small room. It wasn't very clean but hey, no infections so they didn't have to worry about it.

It always took Sam a while to sew up one of these - it wasn't a small cut, and it was deep. Dean usually resisted the urge to eat, figuring it was just a weird sense memory leftover from being alive, but sometimes he just really wanted it. Sam didn't seem to mind. At least everything he had to sew wasn't all slippery.

"Okay, all done," Sam said, tying off the last knot. "Let me see your shoulder."

It only took a few minutes to press the moleskin into place and let it set. Sam ruffled Dean's messy hair and gave him a little shove.

"Strip and go lie down, okay?'

Leaving Sam to tidy up Dean followed his orders. The king-size bed had been pushed up against the far wall, the other furniture, nightstands, table and chairs on top of it. The big circle of painted canvas was spread across the floor, black and red symbols covering everything except a two foot circle near one edge. Nude, Dean lay down with his head in that circle.

A minute later Sam walked out of the bathroom, also naked. Dean took a minute to admire his sculpted body and large flaccid cock that hung in front of heavy balls. He grinned, thinking that Sam was a grower *and* a shower. Not that Dean was any slouch himself. Where Sam had him beat on length Dean more than made up for in thickness.

As Sam pricked his finger and began drawing more symbols on Dean's body he let his mind drift. It was soothing, comforting. He loved to have Sam doing this to him, it let him feel Sam's love in a tangible, non-sexual way. A way that he could trust.

It was funny that no-one ever mistook them for brothers. It's not like they looked a lot alike. Especially with their pants off - Dean snickered. Sam glanced up from his knees and raised an eyebrow. They couldn't speak until they were done, it would mess with the mojo. Dean gave a tiny shake of his head and a smile. Sam returned it and went back to work, beginning to spread the thick oil, sweetened with herbs. He rubbed it gently into Dean's skin. The scent rose and calmed them.

Dean was all bowlegs and thick muscle, Sam was length, finely sculpted but not a match for Dean when it came to sheer muscle mass. Or cock mass, Dean thought, wondering if he could talk Sam into weighing them. Of course after what happened back in May, Sam probably wouldn't even talk about it. Dean winced internally, remembering, but didn't move at all.

Thing was, Sam usually topped. Or almost always. Dean was okay with that, Dean loved that. But every once in a while he got in the mood to be the one doing the fucking, and Sam was entirely willing to go along with it. Or he had been, until last May

They'd been almost thirty hours out from the ritual, chasing a Rugaru that was traveling from town to town. Stopping so Sam could stretch his legs and take a piss, Dean developed a sudden itch that needed to be scratched right then and there and with a little persuasion - Dean's mouth on his cock - Sam had agreed. It wasn't like they hadn't had sex in the car before. So they'd driven down an abandoned gravel track a bit, stripped and got down to it. Using his greater strength, Dean had wrestled Sam onto his stomach on the back seat - Sam's too long legs sticking out the door - and went at it. Plenty of stretching, plenty of lube, and soon they were groaning in tandem, trading sloppy offside kisses and totally in sync.

Thing was, the old road wasn't exactly level, the back of the car a bit higher than the front and, though Dean didn't sweat, Sam definitely did. Like a pig, late spring in Texas.

Dean's hand slipped off the leather by Sam's head. He'd grabbed Sam's shoulder but got no traction there and unceremoniously tumbled to the floorwell, and things went pear-shaped.

"Dean? DEAN! Oh My God what have you done?!"

Staring at the jagged ripped spot where most of his cock used to be, Dean couldn't answer. Sam flailed haplessly.

"Um," Dean managed.

"Oh My God!"

"Sam," Dean started, striving for calm. "Can I have my dick back, please?"

"You *could*," Sam snarled viciously. "Except it's STILL IN MY ASS!"

"Okay." Dean thought for a minute. "That's a problem."

"Ya think?! Get it out!"

"Okay, okay," Dean mumbled as he laboriously clambered back onto the seat, between Sam's tense legs. "It's not a disaster," he said, mostly to himself. "Get it out, wash it and Sam can sew it back on. One ritual and it's good as new."

"If I don't *kill* you first!"

"Wouldn't that, y'know, defeat the purpose or something?"

Glaring at Dean over his shoulder, Sam didn't look too worried about that. Dean shook out his shoulders and touched Sam's fine ass cautiously.

"Okay," he said, working himself up to it. "Okay, it's just like stretching. I just need to -"

"Shut up and do it already!" Sam bellowed.

"You're making me nervous!" Dean yelled back. "I don't want to slip and lose a finger too!"

Sam buried his head in his arms. Dean could hear him mumbling.

"Oh my God, oh my God, I'm cursed. We're cursed. This is divine retribution..."

With extreme care Dean slid a finger and thumb into Sam's ass. Feeling nothing, he wiggled them around, but still all he felt were the smooth muscular walls.

Okay. It must be deeper. He switched to two fingers and pushed a bit and barely felt the edge of - something. The end of his dick, hopefully. He pushed harder. Sam wriggled.

"Uh, Dean?"

"Yeah?" Why couldn't he reach it? Sure, his dick was longer than his fingers, but he'd only broken off part of it.

"Could you please hurry up? This is - uncomfortable."

"Oh. Sorry." Trying not to exert too much strength Dean shoved his fingers deeper.

"Ahhhh!" Sam yelled, scrambling away from him. "What the fuck are you trying to do, rip my ass open?!"

"No." Dean stared at his brother, wondering if there was any good way to say this. "Sam."

"What?!"

"I think it's stuck."

Dean didn't need to relive the rest of the conversation, or the highly uncomfortable silence in the car. Suffice to say that that incident was why they owned a pair of forceps, they hadn't had sex for a month, and Dean hadn't been allowed to top since.

But he really kinda wanted to. He lay still and silent as Sam finished the symbols on his face and then threw the magic pixie dust over him - okay, it was ground chicken bones, frankincense, dried clover and he didn't-remember-what-the-hell-else, so he was calling it magic dust.

Then it was over, Sam gave him a hand up, they checked to be sure everything had healed, and together they folded the cloth and put the room to rights.

"You looked a thousand miles away," Sam commented as they worked. "What were you thinking about?"

"May," Dean said honestly. Sam stopped and glared at him.

"I thought we agreed to never speak of that again."

"At least it wasn't a Gerbil." Dean ducked Sam's swing easily. "It's just - look, I'd like to top again someday."

Sam looked grim. "Not in this lifetime."

"How is that fair?" Dean protested. "It wasn't my fault - you even said so! We've got a nice big bed that nobody's gonna fall off of and I'll be very careful, Sam. It's not like I want to break my dick."

"No," Sam said. "Just no."

Dean watched him go into the bathroom, trying to identify what he was feeling. Hurt, that was it. It had been so long he almost hadn't recognized it.

"Are you coming?" Sam stuck his head around the door. "Or did I screw up the ritual and your brain turned to mush?"

Quirking a half smile, Dean stretched his arms out in front of him and took a few shuffling steps. "Pudding..." he intoned.

"Get in here, you lunatic," Sam rolled his eyes.

The shower was thankfully warm and Dean let Sam gently scrub all remnants of the ritual and the grave digging from him. He took his own turn washing Sam, scrubbing hard at his scalp to get that pleased hum, this as much a part of their ritual as the magic dust. It wasn't until they got out, dried off with too-small towels and crawled into bed that Sam spoke.

With his head on Dean's chest, Dean's fingers drawing idle circles on his back, Sam sighed and said "You're right."

Taking his eyes off the movie they'd turned on, Dean looked down at him.

"I usually am, but what am I right about this time?" His fingers came up to tangle in Sam's hair.

"It isn't fair." Sam pushed himself to sitting. "But that was so weird, uncomfortable and embarrassing, I'm not sure I could go through it again. We've gotten used to some pretty strange things. I just don't want that to become one of them."

Dean had to kiss him. So he did, and they kissed softly but it quickly became hungry.

"It wasn't much fun for me either," Dean pointed out when they paused. In truth he'd spent the entire time silently freaking out that his dick wouldn't go back on or that it wouldn't work again. "But you know I'll be careful. And gentle. I just - I miss it."

"Yeah," Sam sighed. "I would too."

***

Later that night, as Dean rocked slowly and carefully into his brother, hands roaming, teasing, making Sam beg for release, he thought, as he had before, that his life as one of the undead was a million times better than it had been when he was alive.

~~ the end ~~


End file.
